


Oh, to call you mine!

by TheButcherFromBlaviken



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Time, I can't believe that is an actual tag lmao, Incubus!Jaskier, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22680427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheButcherFromBlaviken/pseuds/TheButcherFromBlaviken
Summary: Being a witcher is not an easy life. It's full of anger, despair, misery, and loneliness. Of course, when witchers don't have emotions, this shouldn't be a problem... right? Geralt of Rivia, an (in)famous witcher learns the meaning of genuine touches, and just how much they can fuck you up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 430





	Oh, to call you mine!

**Author's Note:**

> Aight, so, this is my first fic based on the Netflix show The Witcher. I hope y'all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it - it hit dangerously close to home, but was interesting and fun to write nonetheless!  
> If you wanna scream about it to me, head on over to either the-butcher-from-blaviken.tumblr.com (secondary blog) OR pet-of-lucifer.tumblr.com (main blog)!  
> NOT beta-read, but proofread by me, myself, and I, so all mistakes are from my clumsy butterfingers - apologies!

It had been a long time since a woman had tried to seduce him where it wasn’t a transaction. Usually, when women tried to seduce him, it was by batting their eyelashes excessively and touching his arm unprompted and giggling theatrically. It was by pushing their buxom bodies against his.

It never worked, much to their irritation. When he told them he wasn’t interested, they scoffed and swung their long, usually unkempt hair in his face and walked away. He would always sigh, somewhere between exasperated and relieved. It wasn’t like he didn’t want their company, he would just… prefer if it was genuine.

Geralt of Rivia may not have known genuine affection in his life, but the way people talked about it, he knew he wanted to experience it. 

Just once.

At the same time, however, he was certain he would not recognize it if it was presented to him. Not having known affection that wasn’t part of a transaction, he didn’t know what to look for. He wanted to say that he knew genuine affection was tender caresses and firm touches of one’s arm and thighs and soft words whispered in one’s ear. But this, he knew of, and this, he had experienced - albeit in exchange for golden coins.

Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. He wasn’t human, after all, so why should he get to experience a feeling as human as love?

The realization didn’t hurt. It didn’t send a twinge through his heart. It didn’t make him lie sleepless at night. It didn’t create a hollow space in his chest. All it did was make him hum thoughtfully and down the rest of his beer before heading for his room at the inn where he was currently staying - The Humble Boar.

Lying in the bed and staring out the window at the starry sky, Geralt wondered just when he had become so hooked on experiencing something that was so human that it no doubt would never happen to him.

He didn’t find an answer.

He did, however, have a fascinating dream. In this dream, a young-looking creature approached him. He named it a creature because it, while having the body of a man, also possessed qualities of well-known demons - of incubi, to be exact. Incubi were notorious for visiting young women in their dreams and, later on, when they were awake, with one purpose in mind - feeding off their sexual energy to the point they would die from exhaustion.

So, naturally, one can understand Geralt’s confusion when an incubus visited him in his dream. Granted, the incubus was handsome, very handsome, even, but incubi  _ were _ also notorious for being highly attractive. And this one was no exception.

It was almost as tall as himself, with short, brown hair that fell into its bright blue eyes. It had no stubble but rather a smooth chin and cheeks. Appearing young, Geralt had no idea what age he would even estimate the incubus to be. It had curled horns that would make a ram proud, and its legs bent awkwardly, like those of a goat. 

“Hey,” the incubus said, its voice quiet and soft, but distinctively masculine, and somewhat sultry. It came closer and sat beside Geralt. For some reason, he was still in the room at the inn in the dream.

‘Awfully convenient,’ Geralt thought to himself and looked at the incubus, feigning interest. He might not  _ be _ human, but he could mimic their emotions pretty well by now. Nearly a century of being on the road and living in inns had proved rather useful in that regard.

“Hey,” Geralt replied after a little while, his voice much rougher and deeper than the incubus’. Its lips pulled upwards at the corners in an attractive smile, and it leaned closer against Geralt, shoulder pressing against his. Its hand was suddenly on his knee, slowly stroking up to his thigh. Its blue eyes were covered by long, black lashes, fluttering in a way that Geralt couldn’t pretend wasn’t enticing.

And yet, Geralt tensed. This was just like with the prostitutes who pretended to want his company but really only wanted his coin - this incubus was no different.

And just like that, Geralt could  _ feel _ his gaze turn cold and icy. He also saw it in the incubus’ face - it fell slightly, and for a second, it seemed to not know if it should continue sliding its hand up Geralt’s thigh.

“Won’t get anything out of that,” Geralt said and plucked the hand from his thigh, none-too-gently pushing it back to the incubus’ own fuzzy leg.

“You won’t even let me try?”

Geralt shook his head.

“I’m not about to get involved with an incubus.”

“You already are,” the incubus said and leaned even further into Geralt’s personal space to press its lips - soft, full, surprisingly warm, and feeling very real - against his cheek. Geralt tensed even further, nearly smacking the incubus but managing to restrain himself. 

“Get out,” he said roughly and turned his head so he could look at the demon, “get out of my head.”

The incubus smiled, and while it was attractive in its own right, it was also nasty. There was something about it that didn’t put Geralt’s mind at ease. The incubus moved to stand up, and Geralt was certain he had won.

He was proven very wrong when the incubus straddled his lap and threw its slim arms around his broad neck, stroking his hair. It was almost affectionate. Geralt reacted quickly by pushing it to the floor and standing up but as he reached back for his sword, he found it not where it was supposed to be. Quickly looking around the room, he saw it hanging on the opposite wall, and crossed the room in two long strides to grab the richly decorated hilt. He spun around, ready to take on the incubus, but it was nowhere to be seen.

He ground his teeth and didn’t dare lower his sword. Not until the demon had been banished. But the incubus didn’t come back, and when Geralt woke up, he felt anything but well-rested.

It would be another week before the incubus returned. Another week where Geralt wondered if it even  _ would _ return. Another week where Geralt lay sleepless at night, not wanting to become influenced by the creature. But when the incubus did return, it was fierce and raw and feared not his silver sword.

Geralt slashed upwards with the sword, missing the incubus with a few inches, and it laughed in his face, making him growl lowly and headbutt it, hard. The incubus staggered back, but quickly regained its balance so it could lash out at Geralt who jumped out of the way. Another swing of the sword, this time to force the creature back, and before the incubus could realize the bluff, Geralt was in its face, headbutting it once more -  _ hard _ . 

It let out an ungodly howl that would have made a normal man cower. But Geralt was anything but normal. So, instead of cowering, he gripped his sword tighter and was about to unleash the final blow to the incubus when the creature summoned a flame in its hands. A nasty smile was on its face, and Geralt cursed loudly before hastily leaping to the side, out of the way of the ball of fire the incubus sent after him. It reached the opposite side of the room and evaporated in a cloud of smoke instead of burning the wood. 

Another proof that this was nothing more than a warped version of reality. 

With one simple move, the battle had changed - Geralt was now blocking instead of attacking, flames and balls of fire bouncing off the silver blade. The incubus steadily advanced until it was too close for Geralt to wield the sword properly, and the witcher cursed again, tried kicking the demon in the knee, but the incubus was faster, circling him like a wolf did its prey. 

There was something in Geralt that defied all logic and reason. While he was panting heavily and jumping from side to side, only making him pant even more, there was a warmth in his chest that wasn’t from the fire flung at him. There was an eagerness to his steps that wasn’t from wanting to defeat the incubus alone. His eyes were narrowed but his pupils dilated, and he tried convincing himself that it was solely so that he could see better in the darkness that was only faintly illuminated by the moon and occasional burst of flames. 

But Geralt of Rivia was no stranger to lust - he recognized it clearly when it reared its ugly head and made him desperate for any fleeting touch. 

And now, in this very moment, he felt it. He didn’t know  _ why _ , but he knew it was lust burning in his stomach and flaring in his chest. Thankfully, it hadn’t clouded his senses, speed or strength - not yet, at least. 

And yet, he was suddenly pushed back against the wall by the incubus, its teeth bared in a dangerous grin. 

“Well well well,” it whispered triumphantly, and while Geralt kicked at its knees and tried headbutting it, he didn’t pour all of his strength into the attacks. 

He detested himself for it, knowing full well that if he didn’t win this fight, the incubus would gain control over him.

And Geralt was not a fan of that thought. 

He was even less of a fan of the low hiss that escaped his gritted teeth when the incubus kicked his legs apart to nudge a knee between his thighs. It showed weakness, especially the way he almost willingly let it do it. 

Geralt tried headbutting the incubus once more, but it had predicted the move and headbutted him, too, just harder. Geralt groaned, his world spinning. 

“Do you surrender to me?” the incubus all whispered into his ear. 

“Fuck you,” Geralt growled and awkwardly tried kicking the incubus. 

It was to no avail. 

The incubus sighed. 

“You sure do like a fight. Do you consider this foreplay, I wonder,” it mused and then flashed its teeth in a grin, “because I sure like it when you’re trying to suppress your primal desires. Not that it’s working, of course,” it added and ground its knee gently up against Geralt’s crotch, promptly eliciting a throaty moan from the witcher who immediately bit his lower lip to stifle the sound. The incubus looked anything but pleased with this. 

“That just won’t do,” it tutted and ground harder, rubbing its knee back and forth against Geralt. 

“If I agree to sleep with you,” the witcher practically growled out between his teeth, “will you stop this nonsense?”

“No promises,” the incubus said cheerfully and leaned into Geralt’s personal space, like it had done in the first dream, and kissed his cheek. Geralt turned his head and kissed the incubus back, clearly taking it by surprise. It made a high-pitched sort of sound but quickly discarded the sound to instead grab Geralt’s face and jerk it to the side so that it could kiss him fiercely on the lips. 

Hungering for attention and affection, Geralt didn’t deny it the kiss. Instead, he leaned into it. Before he knew it, he was dropping his sword and kissing the incubus fiercely and grabbing its narrow waist to pull it flush against him, pulling from it a pleased chuckle. His hands tightened on the slim waist, and it worked out to his advantage that it was a dream, otherwise he would have crushed the incubus with his inhuman strength. 

Its lips, again, felt surprisingly real, and they were as fierce as his own as/when they pressed against his. The incubus’ tongue quickly darted out to lick along Geralt’s lips before forcing itself between them and into his mouth. 

Geralt would never admit to the throaty moan escaping him once again. 

He took a step forward and pressed the incubus backwards until its knees bumped against his bed, and then he unceremoniously shoved it on its back, quickly climbing on top of it and burying his face in its neck. Here, he administered several bite marks and even more kisses that would have left some very prominent bruises - had the dream been anything but a dream. He inhaled its scent deeply, greedily. 

The incubus let out delectable sounds - anything from low, pleased moans to high-pitched, needy whines, and with Geralt growling gravelly and possessively, they created a cacophony of noises that only served to spur the witcher on, only made him grind harder against the incubus. 

It was easy for both of them to feel that the other one enjoyed it quite a lot - they were both hard, and their touches were desperate and needy, the incubus’ more so than the witcher who had had many years to teach himself self-restraint. Yet, right now, he wasn’t sure where all that self-restraint had gone, because he sure could barely control himself. His hands roved all over the incubus’ slim body, gripping its waist and then hips as he ground against it, craving more, more,  _ more _ . 

“Get out of your armor,” the incubus growled -  _ growled _ \- and pushed Geralt away so that he could obey the order, something he didn’t have to think twice about. He quickly and efficiently discarded his armor, letting it tumble to the floor in a loud pile, before stradling the incubus’ lap, completely naked and a sight for sore eyes. 

Geralt’s pale skin was littered with scars that crisscrossed his body. Many of them were across his chest, but even his lower abdomen had its fair share of slightly elevated skin. His arms were strong, muscular, with very clearly defined muscles, and his long legs, bent on either side of the demon, were much the same. 

He breathed heavily, taking in the incubus’ scent, and leaned down to kiss the creature again, fierce and raw and demanding and pulling a captivating sound from it. 

“Now you get out of your clothing,” Geralt ordered and lifted himself just enough that the incubus could obey. Which it, to its credit, did immediately. It slithered out from underneath Geralt and undid its doublet, folding it neatly until the witcher let out a low growl, and then continuing to fold it neatly but now with a wide grin on its face. Geralt was about to punch the demon’s stupidly attractive face, but by the time he had figured this out, the incubus had finished stripping down and flopped back onto the bed, looking up at Geralt with its stupidly pretty blue eyes. 

It nearly took his breath away.

And to think that this was only just a dream. 

Geralt almost -  _ almost _ \- wished the incubus would visit him when he was awake. What a night that would be!

“Will you ogle me all night, or do you plan on doing anything?” the incubus asked in a challenging tone, challenging enough that Geralt discarded all thoughts of being gentle. It was, after all, not real. He couldn’t hurt the incubus, as much as he had wanted to in the beginning. 

With the prostitutes in the taverns and inns, he always asked their preferred position. Geralt was very well equipped, and he knew it could hurt a woman without proper stimulation, or if they were to do it in a position the woman didn’t feel comfortable in. 

As if they expected him to just take them, with no disregard for their comfort, they always admitted that they liked him asking, that he showed concern for their comfort and well-being. It was almost as if they expected him to be some kind of monster towards them. 

But this time, he didn’t care. He hadn’t bedded a man before, but he had heard enough tales about men fucking men that he knew how to go about it. Plenty of stimulation, preparation, and oil. 

But, seeing as he couldn’t hurt the incubus, he cared not for that. He cared not for the preparation, nor did he care for asking about the demon’s preferred position. 

Geralt said nothing as he pushed the incubus’ long, fuzzy, slender legs towards its hairy chest. He said nothing as he pushed a finger between the cleft of the incubus’ ass and found its warm hole. Only when he pushed a finger inside did he make a sound - a low, throaty groan that vibrated in his chest. 

“Wait!” called out the incubus. “You have to be gentle, use oil!” 

“It’s just a dream,” Geralt said, and despite rarely being proud of himself, he was. He was proud of himself for finding the self-restraint he couldn’t locate earlier, and he was proud of his voice for not wavering in the slightest. There was a somewhat nasty smile on his face. “I can’t hurt you.” 

The incubus huffed softly, and an indignant expression found its way onto its face. 

“Fine. But this treatment won’t do when I come to you while you’re awake.”

“We’ll see if you can manage that.”

And with those words, Geralt began fingering the incubus. Granted, he was somewhat gentle in the beginning, but as the incubus’ moans became wails, he pushed another finger in and set a rough pace. 

The incubus was tight, almost painfully so, and it drove Geralt mad. He could barely wait till he could sink inside that warm tightness, till he could bury himself balls-deep in the incubus, till the pain-riddled wails became silent, sharp gasps of pleasure. 

It was going to be  _ glorious _ . 

But before he got that far, there was a sound outside the tavern where he was staying. In the dream, Geralt only vaguely registered it, but in the real world, Geralt jerked upright as if pulled by a rope, and that woke him abruptly. He was groggy for a second before he realized what had been going on, and he cursed inwardly. 

He was still in his armor, but beneath the thick piece of leather protecting his private parts was a considerable bulge. It throbbed, and it was bordering on painful, but Geralt despised taking care of it himself. Therefore, he just lay on his back on the bed, feeling his heartbeat steadily slow, waiting for his erection to die down. It took a while, but eventually, the throbbing subsided, and with great difficulty, he fell back to sleep.

This time, there was no sultry incubus waiting for him. Just the usual restlessness that followed him like the plague. 

Geralt woke the next morning feeling like shit. The incubus might not have gotten a proper hold of him, but he still felt exhausted. Not to the point a human would, or enough to dull his senses, but still enough that it was a bother. 

When he left his room and went downstairs to get breakfast, the other patrons sent him odd looks, and it dawned upon him that he might not have been entirely quiet during his dream. That would potentially be a problem for someone who felt shame. To Geralt, however, it wasn’t an issue - if people had a problem with him and his bedroom escapades, they would have to talk to him about it. Contrary to, apparently, popular belief, he couldn’t read minds. Could control them to some degree, yes, but couldn’t read them.

Which was probably for the better. It meant less proof of what people  _ really _ thought of witchers, so he could pretend he wasn’t hated in every town he ventured into. People only seemed to like him for his mare, Roach, and for taking care of their monster infestations, which was, ironically, also why they detested him. 

The day was spent taking care of Roach. Geralt thoroughly cleaned her and the saddle plus the bridle, making sure it was all still in good condition. He led her to a patch just outside town where she could eat all the grass she desired. As she frolicked and kicked up her hooves, burning off some of the energy and restlessness that she never got to get rid of, Geralt sat back against a tree and just watched her.

If anyone had seen him then, they would have seen him smile. They might even have taken back the things they said about witchers being heartless and emotionless. 

Because the smile on Geralt’s face was anything but heartless. It was as genuine as smiles come. 

When the Sun began sinking down the sky, giving room for twilight and monsters alike, Geralt whistled, and Roach stopped dancing around to instead obey her owner. He led her back to the town by a makeshift halter made of rope and gave her strong, muscular neck a few firm pats before leading her into her stable. 

When he was confident that she was as comfortable as could be, Geralt walked back into the inn and ordered dinner. The innkeep looked anything but pleased that he would eat so late, but when Geralt just glared at him, no emotion on his face, the innkeep hastily obliged. 

It wasn’t the best Geralt had ever tasted - he had, after all, dined with kings and queens, where there were no limits to the amount or variety of food served - but it got down all the same and quietened his rumbling stomach. Since there were no monsters to hunt in or around this town, he went to his room where he took care of his equipment. He rubbed leather oil into the leather straps of his armor and polished his swords meticulously, getting them in the best shape he could without a grindstone or a repair kit. 

Just as he had put the swords back in their sheaths, there was a knocking on his door. 

Not expecting company, nor wanting it, Geralt didn’t deign the person an answer. He simply put his swords on the bed beside his pillow and pulled on his armor again. It felt good and smelled even better. 

Another knocking on the door. This time, Geralt snapped a harsh, “Go away,” at whoever was outside. Clearly, it wasn’t enough to drive them away, because in the next moment, the door opened to reveal none other than the incubus which had been haunting his dreams for quite some time. 

He stopped dead in his tracks, in the process of tightening the leather straps crisscrossing his armor. Just stared at the incubus in the doorway. 

Despite knowing what was bound to happen next, Geralt was calm. With a slow, steady heartbeat and languid motions, he gestured for the creature to come in, but close the door. 

The incubus obeyed, entering the small room and shutting the door gently behind it. 

Being the epitome of calm, Geralt went to sit on his bed and looked at the incubus. 

It looked much more alluring, practically appetizing, when he was awake. In the dim light from lit candles and moonlight, he could see its lips glisten slightly, and its eyes sparkled with mischief as it sauntered close, also sitting on Geralt’s bed. Its moves were graceful, elegant. Its doublet was halfway undone, showing off its hairy chest with a white, swirly pattern. 

“I believe we have some unfinished business,” it said, and by the gods, its voice was smooth honey and warmth, and Geralt would be damned if he tried to pretend he didn’t like it. 

Geralt was, unsurprisingly to many, not good at flirting. He knew this, so instead of trying to come up with a cocky comeback, he hummed.

“Hmm.”

The incubus sighed dramatically and leaned into his private space, as it had done so many times in his dreams. But now that it was  _ real _ , Geralt could smell it - wood and metal and ale that wafted over him, surrounding him. 

He allowed himself to drown in it. Just for a second. Inhale it. With closed eyes, he took a deep breath and memorized this exact scent, and as he did, a strange sensation overcame him. Then he opened his eyes. 

Geralt, not being one of the gods’ best children, was used to people cowering and running away from him wherever he went. He was so used to people whispering about him behind his back that he barely noticed anymore. He was so used to peasants throwing rocks and rotten food, and regents snarky and cold comments. As hard as it had been, he had learned to ignore it, had learned to accept the fact that he would most likely never find a single soul who would stay with him without a good reason. That reason most often being coin. Whenever coin was involved, suddenly everyone wanted to befriend him and be on his good side. 

But this - this felt different. He knew full well that the company of an incubus couldn’t be counted for ‘real’ company. It was a demon, a creature to be banished, lest it should drain his energy to the point of death. And yet, as he looked into those astoniningshily blue eyes, as his own slowly closed and allowed himself to become vulnerable in the incubus’ presence, he realized that this was the first time anyone had willingly sought out his company. Granted, it was to potentially kill him with exhaustion, but it was such a foreign concept and feeling that Geralt was almost willing to forget that.

They shared a long, deep kiss that was as far from elegant as kisses come, and when they pulled apart, it was with only a few inches between them. The incubus’ lips felt better than Geralt had dreamt. They were impossibly soft and warm and slightly moist, and Geralt found himself yearning to feel them on his again.

He leaned forward to kiss the incubus once more, and it obliged him with a pleased sound emanating from its throat, lifting one hand against his cheek. This time, Geralt took note of all the things he had missed in his dreams. 

The tenderness of the incubus’ hand despite calloused fingertips. The soft hair falling slightly into sparkling eyes. The way its lips moved so effortlessly against his own. How he shivered when the incubus slid its hand down his face to instead rest on his broad chest. 

“How’s that for a start?” the incubus asked in a low, sultry tone, and Geralt’s lips twisted into something like a smile that felt more like a grimace. 

“Damn good,” he answered gruffly. The incubus hummed, pleased, and swung a long and slender but no doubt powerful leg over Geralt, straddling him and sitting in his lap. Its arms snaked around his neck, and he felt its fingers toy with his hair. 

Geralt had always been taught that no one would want to come close enough to play with his hair. But in this very moment, he knew that  _ that _ wasn’t true. 

It might be that it was an incubus playing with his hair, but he was willing to let that slide.

For now, at least. 

He closed his eyes again, slowly, and focused on the hands in his hair. They were gentle and easily carded through the long, unruly strands, untangling the few knots that were to be found. It didn’t take long before Geralt found himself resting his forehead against the incubus’ shoulder, just letting it pet him and stroke his hair.

He found himself... enjoying the touch. Something he thought he would never get to experience. 

Mutant or not, it made his heart swell with emotions he thought impossible to feel, and Geralt smiled softly. His breathing, which was already slow and steady, slowed even more, and he felt about to doze off before he pulled back. 

He looked at the incubus, and the incubus looked at him. 

“Smiling suits you,” it said and lifted its hand to stroke his cheek. Unwittingly, and realizing it so late that there was no recovering from it, Geralt leaned into the touch. 

It was both too much and not enough. It scorched his skin yet soothed the ache in his chest. It was a thunderous roar in his ears yet the gentle tweeting of birds in spring. It killed his fear yet brought new life to his insecurities. 

There was no recovering from it, Geralt knew it in that moment. It was too late to deny what the incubus had brought to life within him. 

For so long, Geralt had longed for a genuine touch, a genuinely tender caress. Of course the plague would have it so it was a monster who offered it to him. 

Geralt knew now what a genuine touch of affection was. 

And he wished he had never felt it. 

“Leave me,” he whispered and took the incubus’ delicate hand in his own before gently but firmly pushing at the demon. It didn’t budge. It shook its head. 

“After all this time? I don’t think so.”

“Leave me,” the witcher repeated, stronger, fiercer. The incubus shook its head again and pulled its hand free of Geralt’s grip, only to gently cup his face with both hands. They were surprisingly strong, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull himself away. 

“You have wandered for so long, wondering what affection might look like. For too long, you have known naught but pain and misery wherever you tread. It’s time you put that behind you.”

Anger suddenly flared in Geralt’s chest. White-hot and burning, it battled the peacefulness the incubus’ touches had created. 

“Let me show you what you’ve been missing.”

“No thank you,” Geralt said resolutely but already as the words formed on his tongue did they die out and become weak embers of a long-forgotten flame. 

“Let me show you what your life could be, if you let it.” 

Geralt snorted, but it was a weak sound. “My life will not change. It’s an endless cycle of earning coins and spending coins. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

“Ah, but what if I were to tell you that that is not true? That there’s more to life, including yours, than earning a miserable schilling and then spending it equally miserably on bad beer in worse towns that would rather you weren’t there at all?” 

His jaws tensed, and he tried turning his head away from the intense, blue eyes watching him. But the incubus would have none of it and forced him to look at it. 

“I know what you were brought up to think,” it said, and suddenly, its voice was endlessly, impossibly kind. Geralt didn’t know what to do with that - never in his life had someone spoken to him with such humanity. And to think that it came from an incubus, of all creatures...! 

“Then you also know what reality I live in,” Geralt said, and was shocked to find his voice feeble and slightly shaky. It retained no bark and very little bite. “That I was brought up focusing on one thing only, slaughtering monsters. Everything else is nonsense. Including this.” He took the incubus’ hands and yanked them down from his face. “If you leave now,” he mumbled, “I won’t follow or fight you.” 

“And if I leave now, you will forever wonder what your life could have looked like. But if that is what you want.” 

Geralt looked into its eyes, realizing they were sad. 

With a frown on his face, and without knowing why he did it, he slowly lifted a hand to touch the incubus’ cheek. It was soft. The incubus didn’t lean into it like he had done. Instead, it lifted one of its own hands to place on top of his, still looking back at him with those wide, sad eyes. 

Something in Geralt’s chest seemed to burst. He felt a sharp twinge, and he sighed deeply. 

It was now or never. It was time to make a decision, like he had done so many times before, that would most likely shape the outcome of his life.

So why did this time feel so different?

A long, long minute passed. 

“Then stay,” he murmured, “stay. Before I change my mind.” 

The incubus answered by kissing him deeply, passionately, squeezing his cheeks slightly. Geralt groaned and grabbed the incubus’ thighs, trying to pull it closer. It giggled and threw its arms around his neck again, pressing itself firm against him. 

The kiss slowly turned fierce. It became teeth and tongue. Touches got eager and desperate, nimble fingers tugging at heavy armor and rough hands at a fancy doublet. The incubus was panting while Geralt’s breathing had barely gotten faster, and he couldn’t help but smile smugly when he finally managed to undo the doublet completely and throw it to the floor. It didn’t take too long for the incubus to undress Geralt, the armor falling to the floor with a ruckus, 

“Be careful with that, please, it cost me quite a few gold pieces,” the incubus said and sent a glance in the direction of the doublet. Its focus, however, was quickly pulled back to Geralt when the witcher switched their positions and pinned the demon below him, grinding against it. He let out a deeply satisfied growl as his now naked cock rubbed against the incubus’, and he closed his eyes a sliver, reveling in the sparks that raced down his spine and filled his stomach with warmth. 

He had gone weeks - months? He wasn’t sure anymore - without a good romp in the hay, and now that it looked like it would happen, his body was screaming for release. 

But he managed to show enough self-control to pull back from the incubus and in a gruff, raspy tone ask if it had brought oil.

“Luckily for you, and for me, of course, I did bring oil. You’ll find it in my pocket. No, not that one. Not that one, either, to the right--- no, the  _ other  _ right, there’s a small--- yes, exactly!” 

Slightly annoyed by the incubus’ amount of pockets - who needed that many pockets, for the gods’ sake! - Geralt pulled out the oil and then sat back on his haunches, looking at the incubus. Its cheeks were flushed red, and it was panting heavily. It wasn’t the skinniest Geralt had ever taken to bed, had a bit of meat on its sides, but this just pleased the witcher. He preferred his lovers to have a bit of fat - it was easier to hold on to them then, and even though Geralt wouldn’t admit it even on his deathbed, they were then also nicer to cuddle with. 

“While I do know that I am quite a nice view, and while it would be a shame not to admire said view, I must request that you do something about this,” the incubus said, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts, and gestured to itself. Geralt snorted and shook his head lightly. Unbelievable, this incubus.

“Let me savor the moment.” 

The demon rolled its perfect blue eyes but didn’t press on. It just stretched out on the bed, its arms above its head, legs slightly spread, and cock curving upwards to rest against his stomach. It wasn’t too thick or long. Geralt would peg it as average. It reacted nicely to his touch, he found out when he reached down to take it in hand, stroking it slowly. 

The incubus, who clearly had not expected the touch, gasped softly and looked up at the witcher, biting its lower lip between which a feeble moan slipped. Geralt smiled smugly and swiped his thumb over the tip, spreading thick drops of precum and then pumping the slightest bit faster, eliciting a wanton moan from the incubus. 

He licked his lips and watched the demon intensely, and a warmth he hadn’t experienced before spread in his chest. He wanted to say it had nothing to do with the demon beneath him, but he wasn’t certain if that would be a lie.

“That feels pretty good,” the incubus said softly, looking back at Geralt with slightly hooded eyes and lips that looked so delicious. He leaned down over the smaller man to kiss them, pulling from them a keen whine which morphed into another wanton moan when he stroked the incubus faster. The kiss was deep and slow, lips just barely matching the speed with which the witcher took care of the incubus’ cock. Soft groans and quiet whines spilled from the man’s lips, and when he began writhing and pushing into Geralt’s hand, Geralt withdrew. 

Liking the frustrated, dissatisfied sound that left the incubus was something Geralt hadn’t expected. Rarely, if ever, did he like something that came from someone. In his experience, what other people gave him was insults and rude comments. Not to mention the few, but memorable times where peasants had thrown rocks at him to hound him out of their village. 

So when he found himself liking that particular sound, and wanting to hear it again, it took Geralt by surprise. 

“I swear to all the gods available, Geralt, if you don’t do something, I will---” 

Geralt never got to hear just what the incubus would do, because he chose to listen to it for once, spreading its legs roughly and smothering oil over his fingers. It was cold. The incubus let out a keen and needy whine, and Geralt rubbed his fingers together, hoping to warm the oil just a bit. When he deemed it good enough - or rather, when he grew impatient - he slid his fingers down the cleft of the incubus’ shapely ass, easily finding its hole. The incubus hissed softly at the touch that was still a bit cool, but it soon turned into a sound of pleasure when Geralt’s fingers danced around the rim, eventually letting one press inside. 

It was a tight fit, much like in his dream, and, also much like in his dream, the incubus let out some truly sinful sounds, sounds that would have driven any sane, human man to the brink of insanity. Lucky for Geralt, he wasn’t a human man, and it was doubtful if he even could go insane. Plenty of people would say that he  _ was _ insane, of course, but for the most part, that stemmed from prejudice, from him being a witcher and thus, a mutant. A killing machine. A highly skilled assassin. 

And everyone knew that assassins were insane and felt no remorse for the deeds they did. 

He didn’t want to think about that. Not now, when he was having an, admittedly, good time. 

“Gods, fuck,” the incubus groaned and grabbed the bed covers. 

“Relax,” Geralt said and moved his finger in slow but deep thrusts, giving the incubus plenty of time to get used to the feeling. He poured more oil on his fingers, just for good measure.

“What does it look like I’m trying to do?”

Geralt didn’t answer that. 

Instead, he carefully pushed a second finger inside the incubus writhing to such a degree that Geralt had to hold him down with his other hand, which was quite easy, seeing as Geralt was a fair bit stronger. Not that the incubus was weak by any means - it was powerful in its own right, which was part of why Geralt had allowed it to seduce him, Geralt was just stronger. 

With two fingers in him, the incubus moaned breathily and shuddered. For a second or two, he tensed and stiffened, but then he relaxed again, slumping against the bed. 

“There we go,” Geralt hummed and moved his fingers slightly faster while his other hand stroked the incubus’ hip in a way that could almost be described as tender. He could smell the sweat on the incubus’ brow, as well as he could smell his arousal, hanging heavy and delicious in the air. He could hear his rapid heartbeat and breathing. 

It had been a long while since Geralt had experienced this, a long while since his partner had reacted so  _ genuinely _ to his advances. 

It was invigorating. It made him growl quietly and thrust his fingers faster and harder, wanting to hear more of the incubus’ luscious sounds. He wasn’t disappointed - the other man gasped, then moaned loudly, and he arched his back while his hips stuttered in an attempt to push back against the thrusts. 

“Oh,” the incubus moaned, his lips forming the simple syllable so perfectly, and Geralt couldn’t help leaning down to kiss him fiercely, all but biting at his lips and shoving his tongue inside his mouth. This made him moan even deeper, the sound resonating within Geralt, and he eagerly kissed the witcher back. 

“Do you have a name?” Geralt asked on a low growl, barely able to force out the words between the rough kisses. 

“How rude,” the incubus groaned, “to think that someone as great as I do not have a name! I am offended, witcher!” 

“Answer the question.” 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your---”

“A shorter one?”

“Good grief, how much do you demand of me?”

“I’m not saying that name.”

The incubus sighed deeply, and while an indignant expression was draped over his face, his eyes sparkled with something that was anything but. Geralt nearly didn’t dare name it, afeared that he was mistaken. 

“You may call me Jaskier.” His voice was soft and airy, and with the way he looked at Geralt, with his stupid eyes sparkling and his delectable lips glistening with saliva, his hairy chest rising and falling rapidly and his body trembling faintly, there was half a second where Geralt thought he couldn’t breathe. The air got stuck in his throat, and his heart felt like it stopped beating. 

“Jaskier.” 

It felt good. It felt...  _ right _ . 

The incubus shuddered and let out a quiet moan, and Geralt, realizing he had stopped thrusting, began moving his fingers again, suddenly desperate to hear the incu--- to hear  _ Jaskier _ utter more of those salacious noises. 

“Geralt,” he gasped and reached up to grab Geralt’s upper arm firmly, throwing his head back and exposing his beautiful throat that really could use a few bruises. Geralt decided to provide said bruises, and he kissed and bit the smooth, pale skin until red marks appeared. He usually abstained from leaving marks, thinking it too possessive, but there was something about this Jaskier that just  _ begged _ Geralt to leave his mark. 

Geralt was vaguely aware that he was slowly entering dangerous territory. It felt suspiciously much like he was starting to fall for this incubus, which, he was sure, wasn’t even possible. He had no feelings, and he couldn’t discern emotions related to romance. 

At least he wasn’t  _ supposed _ to. 

But there were many things Geralt ‘wasn’t supposed to’, and just as many that he did anyway. 

So, why was it so unthinkable that he had somehow unlocked this specific emotion? Would it really be so awful to allow himself to  _ feel  _ this? Of course, he knew it was dangerous to develop feelings. They could be used against him, could cloud his judgment or, worse yet, his senses. 

It could weaken him if Jaskier didn’t return his feelings. Or if Jaskier  _ said _ he returned them, but later on changed his mind. 

A sudden jab of fear pierced his heart. He rarely felt afraid, but right now, he did. The next thought that registered was that he needed to get out  _ now _ . Following that was a sense of stubbornness. 

No.

Why should he stop now, when he finally had what he had yearned for for so long within reach? 

“Geralt.” 

It was nothing but a quiet whisper, yet it was enough to pull Geralt out of his thoughts and look at Jaskier. It was as if he could feel what was going on with him. He reached a hand up to stroke Geralt’s cheek, and, fighting his training and instincts, Geralt leaned into the touch. It was warm and it was soft. It was nice. 

“It’s okay,” Jaskier whispered, and his caress was so tender that it made the breath hitch in Geralt’s throat. He couldn’t stop staring at him. 

How could an incubus arouse such feelings in someone meant to be cold and devoid of emotions? Sure, they were meant to arouse  _ lust _ and  _ desire _ , but this, what Geralt felt, was much more than lust and desire. It was yearning, longing. 

He didn’t dare say a word, afeared that his voice would break or otherwise betray him. 

Trying to mask and forget what was going on in his head and heart, Geralt slathered more oil on his fingers and thrust harder and faster, in the process pressing in a third finger. Jaskier, who looked like he had been about to say something, gasped and then moaned throatily. He arched his back in the most beautiful way Geralt had ever seen in a lover, and for a long second, all air was knocked out of him. Then he remembered how to breathe.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, and his voice was laced with need, with desperation, was so light and airy, and Geralt  _ loved _ it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had  _ loved _ something, and yet, he had a feeling this particular time would stick with him for months, if not years, to come. 

Jaskier repeated his name over and over, like a mantra, saying it with such veneration that Geralt wasn’t sure how to handle it. The way he chose was to move his fingers deeper and faster, pulling not just his own name from Jaskier’s beautiful lips, but also the prettiest moans he had ever heard, some of them accompanied by a sharp hiss or a gasp when he pushed against  _ just _ the right spot. 

That was how he handled most situations - go harder, go faster, do what you must, but do not let your actions be confused by your thoughts. 

“Geralt.” 

He thrust harder, eager, if not desperate, to hear what other noises Jaskier could make. 

He didn’t stop because he didn’t feel like continuing - he stopped because, when Jaskier next whispered his name, it was so subtle and quiet that Geralt could easily have pretended he didn’t hear it. But there was an urgency in his voice that begged him to pay attention. 

“ _ Geralt. _ ” 

Geralt stopped, so focused he was barely able to breathe. 

There was a hand on his cheek and a hand on his arm. They were warm and tender, and Geralt let out a deep, shaky breath at the contact. Throughout his life, he had never known a genuinely compassionate, loving touch, and now he was experiencing it in abundance, and he was certain he could feel his heart become engulfed in emotions he had never dared believe in. 

It was wonderful as well as terrifying. 

“I’ve got you.”

Geralt swallowed heavily. Nodded. 

“Rest. Be easy.” 

Geralt swallowed heavily. Nodded. 

“You have been running from yourself all your life. It’s time to return home. You’re safe now.” 

The words didn’t exactly make Geralt want to  _ cry _ , but it did feel like something in his chest burst. A warmth washed over him, but yet, despite its warmth, the words chilled him to the bone. 

He said naught, once more afeared that speaking would reveal what a state he was in. 

Instead, he let actions speak for him by kissing Jaskier. It was deep and slow and with as much passion as he could pour into it. He didn’t know why, but he wanted -  _ needed  _ \- Jaskier to feel the passion that consumed him. 

Jaskier responded in such a way that it seemed to wash away worries Geralt hadn’t known he had carried around with him, by sighing softly and wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck and his legs around his waist, pulling him closer until they were flush against one another. 

With their bodies pressed so tightly together, it was hard to determine where one began and one ended. But for some reason, Geralt found that he liked that. The closeness and intimacy. It felt... safe. It was like he, for once, didn’t have to worry about getting a dagger in his back every time he closed his eyes or allowed himself company. 

It was like he could let his guard down for just a moment. 

It was an odd sensation, but he quickly decided that he liked it. There was a relief in knowing that with this one person, he could rest. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, all breathless and with a faint, dazed smile on his face, “do you still want to continue? I don’t mind if---”

“Yes,” Geralt said before he could think twice or stop himself. Much to his surprise - and delight - his voice didn’t betray him. It was as gravelly, steady, and deep as ever. 

Jaskier’s smile widened, and Geralt would succumb to the plague before he would admit how gorgeous a smile it was. It was all sunshine and happiness, like he genuinely cared about Geralt and his feelings, while it also showed off his teeth. It even seemed to brighten the room, impossible as that was.

They took a long moment to just admire each other.

It was Jaskier who broke the silence. 

“How do you want to go about it?” he asked softly, stroking Geralt’s cheeks. Geralt had to fight himself not to lean into the touch. 

It was a losing game, and it didn’t take him long to lose. 

“Let’s just continue,” he answered and grabbed the vial of oil. Jaskier nodded and kissed Geralt again before lying back against the bed. He looked up at Geralt like he put the stars in the sky, and Geralt was breathless for a long, long moment. 

He had never thought he would experience love. He wasn’t sure what to look for, but this, he thought, this was it. It had to be. Surely, nothing could be better than this. 

He slathered oil over his fingers and cock, making sure both were sloppy and covered in the thick fluid, before he fingered Jaskier for about a minute to make sure he was thoroughly loose so it would hurt as little as possible. As he prepared Jaskier, he stroked himself back to full hardness and, when he deemed everything right, he gently withdrew his fingers and lined up his cock with Jaskier. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and visibly sagged against the bed. Geralt couldn’t help but admire him for a few seconds. It was with a shaky breath that he pushed in, and it got even shakier when Jaskier clamped down around him with a sharp gasp. His cock throbbed, and it took an enormous amount of self-control not to go balls-deep in him. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” he whispered and closed his eyes a sliver before opening them wide again. They were practically glued to Geralt’s yellow, cat-like eyes, and Geralt felt even more naked under his intense gaze. His jaws clenched, and he leaned down on one of his hands, placed next to Jaskier’s head. Otherwise, he didn’t move, wanting to give Jaskier time to get accustomed to having his dick in him. 

“Fuck, indeed,” he grunted and felt his lips twitch slightly in a smile. Jaskier smiled, too, and then let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Tell me when I can move.”

“Are you getting impatient?” Jaskier smirked. “Because I  _ will _ have you know that you are quite big, and while I have indeed done this with other men, it takes time and patience. Something you, my good witcher, seem to lack.”

“I have all the time in the world.”

“But  _ patience _ , dear Geralt. If you have all the time in the world, then how come you are not more familiar with the concept of waiting and being willing to accept delays without suffering annoyance?” 

Geralt had no good answer to that. Jaskier  _ knew  _ and looked entirely too pleased with himself. It was infuriating. 

“You can move, by the way.” 

Geralt didn’t have to be told twice. He took a gentle but tight hold of Jaskier’s hips and slowly pushed forward, moaning deeply as he was engulfed by Jaskier’s warm tightness. It felt like all the air was knocked out of his lungs, and he let out a shuddering, elongated sigh. Jaskier was nice and tight, but loose enough that Geralt could sink balls-deep into him without injuring him. 

At least he hoped not, and if he did hurt him, Jaskier didn’t show it. Instead, he showed signs of immense pleasure as Geralt sank into him - his lips parted to form a shaky “Oh”, which repeated itself over and over the deeper Geralt got, and his back arched again while his hands desperately clutched the bed’s covers. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” he whispered, laughed breathlessly, and closed his eyes tightly, letting out a quiet hiss when Geralt’s hips pressed against his ass. 

Geralt, who prided himself in his amount of self-control and self-restraint, was certain that Jaskier would drive him insane with his light thrashing, his panting, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the sounds spilling from his delectable, very kissable lips. He spread Jaskier’s legs wider and leaned down between them so that he could catch those lips with his own, hungry and rough and needy. The incubus moaned throatily and kissed him back, demanding him closer by tightening his legs and arms around him. Geralt happily obliged. 

“Move, you big brute, lest I curse you,” Jaskier panted, his voice hoarse, and opened his eyes again when Geralt pulled away from the kiss. 

“Cursing is not one of your abilities,” Geralt said, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips. Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t kill the romance, Geralt.”

At that, Geralt snorted and shook his head almost imperceptibly before slowly pulling out a few inches, relishing the sharp, elongated moan-slash-hiss tumbling past Jaskier’s lips. The feel of him alone - tight and hot and slippery and _perfect_ \- was enough to drive him insane, but mix in his sounds, and Geralt was done for. 

He moaned lowly, a deep, vibrating rumble in his chest, and drove forward again to bury himself in the slick warmth. Jaskier let out a very undignified sound and threw his head back, craning and exposing his beautiful neck where marks were beginning to blossom. They would look pretty in a few hours’ time, deep red mixed in with some blue or purple, potentially, some of them with clear teeth marks as well. Geralt didn’t want to admit it, but he felt a surge of pride at knowing he had marked up the incubus so well.

It was not like him to be proud. He had always been taught to suppress his emotions and feelings, so even when he had done a good job hunting down a monster, there was no pride in his face, no pride in his voice when he stated the obvious - that he had slain the beast and would like his reward, thank you very much. 

But now? Feeling pride because of such a thing, by many considered vile and silly? 

Then again, when had Geralt ever listened to what people around him said? When had he ever cared if he should do something or not, just because a bunch of peasants would be pissy about it? If he wanted to leave his mark on this gorgeous incubus, who had been the one to decide to haunt  _ him _ , then who could stop him?

Geralt’s moves began resembling a pace. They began resembling proper thrusts, deep and hard albeit slow, and for each thrust, Jaskier let out a thin, airy gasp that made Geralt all the more eager and determined to make him come undone. 

Which, by the current state he was in, didn’t seem to be too big of a task. 

He was squirming and panting, his legs were trembling, his arms tight around Geralt’s neck. It didn’t take long before his legs slid down Geralt’s sides and his feet rested firmly against the bed. They jerked with the power of the thrusts, and Jaskier’s gasps slowly morphed into properly indecent moans, spurring Geralt on. 

The heat that had coiled low in his stomach was starting to spread to the rest of his body. A fog seemed to settle in his mind, making it harder to make rational decisions. Thankfully, for the time being, it seemed the amount of rational decisions that had to be made was minimal. 

Geralt looked down at Jaskier and was mesmerized by the sheer beauty of his face. His long lashes occasionally covering the most gorgeous blue eyes. His tongue coming out to wet his full, luscious lips that parted to form most titillating sounds. His smooth skin that felt so good to touch. The bright red of a blush going from one side of his face to the other. 

Not knowing for how long he had done it, Geralt came to his senses and found himself stroking Jaskier’s sides, completely enthralled by the softness, the warmth. Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. He instead sighed deeply and closed his eyes, trying to push into the touch as well as Geralt’s steadily quickening thrusts. 

“Touch me, please,” Jaskier whispered and bit his lower lip, arching his back slightly when Geralt pushed in deep, hard, and fast.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“No,” Jaskier laughed breathlessly and looked up at Geralt, “ _ touch _ me, like this, here, I’ll show you.” 

And he showed Geralt what he meant - he plucked one of the witchere’s big, strong hands from his side and instead moved it to his cock, making it a closed fist. 

Geralt blinked slowly. Of course. He should have known what Jaskier meant. But in his defense, he had never been with a man before, he didn’t know what was acceptable and what wasn’t. 

“I take it you know what to do from here?”

Geralt nodded and, to show that he most definitely knew what to do from here, began pumping Jaskier in time with his thrusts, and this, more than anything, seemed to pull him undone. He moaned loudly and without shame, arched his back again, and clutched at Geralt’s arms like he was in immense pain and wanted something else to focus on. His cock throbbed in Geralt’s grasp, and his ass clamped down around him. His breathing stuttered and quickened. His fingers dug into the strong muscles of Geralt’s arms, and his toes curled. 

“Oh, fuck, yeah, that feels good,” he whispered, eyes closed once more, and visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Again, Geralt leaned down to press his stronger, broader body against Jaskier, and kissed him deeply, not for a second ceasing his now relentless thrusts that had Jaskier crying out. The sound was immediately swallowed down by an eager Geralt who kissed him harder and ground against him, grunting and hissing lowly himself. 

He could feel himself hurtling towards his climax, fast, and he didn’t know the proper procedure for finishing with a man. Women often insisted on wearing those leather condoms, even if he bitterly reassured them that he was sterile, that there was no way he could get them pregnant. Some of them believed him, some of them thought him a fool. All of them knew what he was.

“Jaskier,” he whispered, voice deep and full of gravel, yet also full of reverence. “Jaskier, what do I---”

Apparently having sensed that he was close, Jaskier looked up at him, blushing something delectably, and leaned up the slight bit necessary to whisper into Geralt’s ear. 

“You can come wherever you want, I know you won’t get me bedridden with diseases.” 

Geralt was eternally grateful that Jaskier hadn’t ruined the mood by saying that he knew Geralt was sterile, or a witcher, and continued thrusting hard and fast, admiring how the incubus’ body jerked slightly with each powerful move. 

It didn’t take long before the heat in his stomach became almost unbearable. It intensified greatly, practically scorching him from within, and he caught Jaskier’s lips in a searing kiss that took his breath away, made him grunt out his name on a shaky exhale, barely audible. He leaned down on his elbows, rough fingers playing with soft, brown locks, and the kiss lasted for what felt like minutes, yet mere seconds.

He finished with a loud growl that could  _ maybe _ ,  _ potentially _ have formed Jaskier’s name, and he drove mercilessly forward into Jaskier who took him so easily and with naught but pleasureful moans and whimpers. 

Whiteness exploded behind his eyes, and for an impossibly long second, it was hard to breathe. He was only vaguely aware that his eyes were tightly shut, that his mouth was, too. Through his gritted teeth slipped a sound of deep pleasure, and Geralt ground hard against Jaskier, trying so desperately to get deeper - with no success. His hand squeezed Jaskier tighter, but didn’t stop moving. Instead, the pace quickened, and he pumped almost frantically while breathing heavily. He could feel thick ropes of cum spurt into Jaskier, and for every streak that painted his insides ivory, Geralt grunted and pushed forward once more. 

Jaskier was making fuck-all sense. He was babbling incoherently, moaning and grunting and making all manners of salacious sounds while thrashing this way and that, trying to get closer to Geralt, hunting the sweet, sweet friction that would throw him over the edge. 

When he finally tumbled over it, it was with a sharp gasp, then his lips forming the most beautiful, elongated “Oh,” and he arched his back to the point Geralt was certain it would snap. 

He was - luckily and, of course - mistaken. 

Instead of his spine snapping like a twig underfoot, Jaskier sagged back against the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, adorned by thick ropes of ivory cum. His eyes were hidden behind heavy eyelids, and his hands gradually slid down Geralt’s arms until they rested on the bed. His fingers twitched lightly, his toes slowly uncurling. 

When Geralt allowed himself to relax and pull out, he took great care to slump next to Jaskier instead of on top of him. He wasn’t a big fan of bodily fluids and would prefer to steer clear of them if at all possible. Jaskier didn’t seem to feel the same way - he happily stretched out his long body before snuggling up against Geralt. And Geralt wasn’t sure how to handle that. On one hand, he wanted to push the incubus away. This hand, he knew very well. He rarely - if ever - cuddled with his lover. Mainly because all his past lovers had been prostitutes, and they were rarely fond of cuddling with a witcher. 

On the other hand - and this was what he didn’t know very well - he wanted to hold Jaskier close. 

He wanted to hold him so close that it was impossible to say where one began and one ended. 

He wanted to smell like this wondrous incubus, and the incubus to smell like him. 

He wanted to hug him so tightly his bones creaked. 

Geralt, who had not once in his life let his feelings take control - because witchers didn’t  _ have  _ feelings - let the very same and impossible feelings get the better of him. He wiggled closer to Jaskier and manhandled him onto his side so that they could better fit on the bed. 

And maybe also so that Geralt could wrap an arm around him and hold him close. He could hear his elevated heartbeat and could smell his dying arousal. Heavy and musky, it hung in the air like a cloud, threatening to burst at any moment. 

At the rough manhandling, Jaskier let out a thin whine, but it wasn’t one of pain, Geralt was certain. If not because he had taught himself the meaning of various human sounds, then because Jaskier immediately curled up against him, like a cat or dog in front of a roaring fire on a cold winter night, snuggling his face into Geralt’s chest. 

They lay in silence for a while. Geralt felt relaxed in a way he hadn’t felt in ages. He had an arm wrapped tightly around Jaskier, for some reason not willing to let him go. 

But there was a question in the back of his mind that begged to be asked and be answered. 

“Why me?” His voice was once more steady and rough, in no way betraying what had transpired some minutes ago. He didn’t look at Jaskier, instead stared straight ahead, through the room, at the other wall. He would be damned if he admitted it, but he was a slight bit hesitant about hearing the answer to his question. Would it be because freaks sought out other freaks? Because he would prove a challenge? Because the world, even other monsters, wanted to be rid of witchers? 

Jaskier pulled back enough to look up at him, blinking his eyes rapidly like he didn’t understand the question. 

“What do you mean, why you?”

Geralt sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Shifted a bit on the bed. 

“I mean, why did you decide to haunt  _ me _ ? The Gods know I’m not one to disagree with, unless you possess a wish for death.” 

Jaskier was quiet for a minute or two. Long enough that Geralt got antsy and started formulating his withdrawal from the conversation. But then Jaskier spoke, and it was with the softest voice Geralt had ever heard. Not timid, nor shy, just so very soft and quiet and full of emotions he couldn’t even begin to describe or discern. 

“It is my purpose. If I don’t haunt someone, if I don’t feed off their lustful energy until they’re completely drained, then  _ I _ shall be completely drained and cease to exist. And... I have met people with whom I have fallen in love. I have met people whom I couldn’t bear to feed off because I didn’t want to be the reason they perish.” 

“But I guess I’m fine to haunt, since people don’t want me around. Peasants and regents will be missed, but a witcher, no one cares about,” Geralt sneered and clenched his jaw, tightened the grip around Jaskier. But Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. He just shook his head.

“That may be true to  _ some _ , but I figured that... since you’re practically immortal, or at least living for a few hundred years, which might as well be the same thing, I figured I could feed off you for a longer time, and thus saving a few humans in the process. Only...”

“Only what?” the witcher snarled when the incubus didn’t immediately continue. Jasker sighed and rubbed his forehead against Geralt’s chest. 

“I didn’t expect to fall in love with someone like you. No, no, don’t take it like that, Geralt, I didn’t mean--- ah, fucking hell...”

“You better come up with a damn good explanation for that,” Geralt said coldly, already plotting how to best reach his sword. The things he felt, had felt for the incubus... were they all for naught? Had they been mere lust, after all?

“I didn’t expect to fall in love with someone who could so easily kill me, is what I meant. An incubus, falling for a witcher? That’s tragically hilarious! That’s the kind of romance spoken of in ballads and poetry, not real life! It could never be sustainable. I was a fool for thinking this would end any differently.”

There was a bitterness in his voice as he spoke, getting stronger and stronger the more he said.

“And yet, here we are,” Geralt said, much softer this time. Jaskier snorted quietly. 

“And yet, here we are,” he repeated. 

Silence fell over them, and Geralt fell deep in thought. He assumed the incubus did as well, since he was very quiet.

If Jaskier really was telling the truth - and why wouldn’t he? What did he have to gain from a lie so bold and exposing as this? - then Geralt was at a loss. How should he handle this? A demon, a hybrid, potentially wanting to haunt him for the remainder of his life, which could be very long or very short, depending on fate, destiny, and contracts? He was supposed to  _ kill _ that kind of creature -  _ if _ someone could offer him a coin for it. But seeing as no one had been bothered by Jaskier - granted, he had only been haunting  _ him  _ \- maybe it would be in the general good favour of the humans to keep him alive, so long as he haunted only him, and no one else? 

The mere thought of having this incubus for the rest of his life made warmth spread in his chest and on his face. He could feel it, hot as the sun high on the sky, and he could feel his heart thump the slightest bit faster. The thought was...  _ good _ , for lack of a better word. Geralt had never been good with this kind of thing - naming emotions he supposedly didn’t possess. But, for better or for worse, he began imagining life with Jaskier, and what he saw in his head was... it was good. It was almost peaceful - although that would be a bold lie. He still needed to fight and kill monsters to earn coins for food and lodging. He still needed to follow his code, and the instincts that had been forced into him begged him to keep doing it as well. It was what he had been trained, been  _ bred _ , to do. 

But aside from that, aside from gore and venomous glances and rocks being thrown at him, it was nice. 

The incubus would be there to provide company. Not that Geralt had ever thought he would be happy with company. As long as he had Roach, everything was fine. 

The incubus would be there to provide a listening ear. Not that Geralt ever talked much. But perhaps he could learn to do that. Perhaps he could learn to share when something bothered him. The most he talked was on the road, with Roach, or when he needed information on a new contract. 

The incubus would be there to provide care. Not that Geralt  _ needed _ the care. But on the other hand... it would be nice to have someone, who believed he was worthy of good things, close by. 

Jaskier would simply be Jaskier, with all which that entailed. 

“Allow me to come with you?” 

Again, Jaskier’s voice wasn’t timid, but Geralt had been so deep in thought that, while he heard the words, they didn’t register, didn’t carry a meaning.

“Hmm?”

“Allow me to come with you?” Jaskier asked again, soft and kind and open to the possibility that no, Geralt wouldn’t want him along, for whichever reason. 

But why wouldn’t Geralt want him along?

“Yeah,” he said quietly and squeezed Jaskier closer against him, as if afeared that the incubus would disappear if he stopped hugging him. 

He could feel Jaskier smile into his chest, and his fingers dug the slightest bit firmer into his back as he hugged him back. 

“Thank you.”

Geralt smiled and buried his face in Jaskier’s hair, inhaling his scent deeply. Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his smile just widened, and he let out a silvery laugh that seemed to wash away all of Geralt’s worries. Of course he would take the incubus with him. There was little to no doubt that it would be a mutually beneficial relationship - Geralt wouldn’t need to worry about genuine affection ever again, and whatever village he ventured into wouldn’t need to worry about losing their peasants to an incubus. 

“What will you do when I’m off fighting monsters?” Geralt asked, the hint of an amused smile playing on his lips. 

“I could take up hobbies. I’ve always wanted to play an instrument. The lute, perhaps. What do you think, Geralt, eh? Me playing epic ballads about your latest escapades, defeating villains, brooding solemnly in dark corners of less-visited taverns?” 

Geralt shook his head but couldn’t deny a happy, bubbly feeling in his chest. Along with the warmth that was still there, it made for a highly unusual sensation. But it was, undeniably, a good sensation. One that he desperately wanted to chase. 

“Yes, I think I shall do that. And I will become the most famous poet on the entire Continent!” 

“Hmm.” It wasn’t the usual dismissive sound, but rather one of affirmation. Maybe even affection, if he dared venture there. 

“And you, Geralt, my dear witcher, will become even more famous through my stories! Everyone will know who you are, your story, that you are not like other witchers. They will start liking you. How does that sound?”

“Too good to be true,” Geralt muttered and pressed a kiss to the soft, slightly sweaty, brown hair. 

“Oh, but I will make it so! Mark my words, dearest witcher, I will make you famed and venerated!” 

“If you say so,” the witcher smiled. 

He wasn’t about to argue with someone whose life mission seemed to be making  _ his  _ life easier. That would be silly. And if there was one thing that Geralt was not, it was silly. 

And yet, some would proclaim it silly how deeply the witcher seemed to care for the incubus. Unnatural, abhorrent, that the monster hunter should fall in love with the monster. 

But to Geralt, Jaskier was anything but a monster. 

Jaskier was Jaskier. He was the sun on his face, with its warmth and brightness. He was early spring, with its flowers and herbs and animals peeking out of their burrows and homes. He was the mighty sea, with its depths that could swallow you up like a maelstrom an armada. He was the fire, warm and intense and dangerous if played with the wrong way. 

Jaskier was not perfect, but Geralt hadn’t been looking for perfection.

Without knowing it, he had been looking for Jaskier. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed <3


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